


When They Sleep

by Mungo_of_Maundery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Vignette, but only sort of vignette, i swear like all my fics are tagged as sleepy cuddles, it's cute okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mungo_of_Maundery/pseuds/Mungo_of_Maundery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick series of snapshots regarding Illya and Napoleon's respective sleeping habits</p>
            </blockquote>





	When They Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I got into this fandom a little while ago (after meaning to for ages) and wow it got me pretty much instantly. I love it. This is the first fic I've done for it and I'm hoping to get some more ideas because I'd love to write more for them. This started out as just a series of headcanons but they became more and more detailed and prose-like so I decided to neaten them up and post them :)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Both of them are rather good at falling asleep whenever and wherever necessity demands, but Illya is perhaps slightly better at it than Napoleon. It seems to Napoleon that as soon as Illya's head touches the pillow, his breathing evens out and he's asleep. Napoleon prefers to stay up a little later. Both are light sleepers, although trust allows them to sleep more deeply when they are with the other. Both know that if something should happen - not that it could, surely, not in Napoleon's comfortable apartment or Illya's tiny, lofty rooms with their shelves and shelves of books (they’re accustomed to treat both sanctuaries as their own, regardless of who usually lives there) - then they will have each other's back.

 

***

 

When he sleeps, Napoleon spreads himself out, unknowingly stretching and rolling so that by a certain point in the wee hours of the morning, he'll have most of the bed to himself, leaving Illya to wake up blanketless and cramped and dangerously close to falling. Illya prides himself that no matter how many girls end up in Napoleon's bed, only he knows exactly what time in the morning Napoleon will begin to do this. He prides himself, also, that he knows exactly how to roll Napoleon over and shove him, gently but unceremoniously, back to his own space on the mattress, in a way that doesn't wake him.

Instead, Napoleon whines in his sleep, a pathetic sound calculated even when unconscious to soften Illya's heart with its notes of hurt and betrayal.

'How can you do this to me when I'm innocently asleep? When I'm so comfortable?' the whine seems to say. Illya is not fooled.

'Stop playing innocent,' he mutters in reply to Napoleon’s pitiful complaints, as he resists Illya’s attempts to shove him over. Once Illya has a bit of a hold, he pushes hard against Napoleon's back, then shuffles down and takes hold of his ankles - this is the tricky part, for if Napoleon wakes to find someone gripping his ankles, Illya is liable to end up with a broken nose - and moves them away from him, encouraging Napoleon to shift.

'Mmmmmphh...' says Napoleon, rolling over and away, leaving an invitingly warm stretch of mattress for Illya to occupy.

Illya climbs back into the bed, muttering in Russian, and extricates some of the blankets from Napoleon's sleep-heavy body to pull over himself. Satisfied, Illya allows himself a small smile and settles back down to sleep.

 

***

 

Napoleon talks in his sleep, sometimes, in long strings of muffled, jumbled up sentences that Illya can never quite make out. The first time he'd heard it, he'd thought Napoleon was faking: the voice is not like Napoleon's usual voice. It's softer, more open, almost childlike. Sometimes, Illya catches individual words that make no sense out of the context of Napoleon's dreams. Now and then, he hears his own name, and knows that Napoleon is dreaming of him. Occasionally, Napoleon giggles in his sleep, and sometimes he whimpers, as if hurt or afraid. It's a noise Illya knows he'd never be privy to when Napoleon is awake. Likely, Napoleon has no idea that he's able to sound so vulnerable. Illya knows that Napoleon Solo is an extremely capable and dangerous man - but hearing his nighttime ramblings produces in him an overwhelming urge to protect him.

Napoleon knows none of this. It's private, after all; perhaps Illya isn't supposed to hear.

 

***

 

Illya does _not_ talk in his sleep. Napoleon sometimes wishes he did; it would be nice to hear something a little candid from his subconscious, but it's never forthcoming. The most he can expect is the short, strangled gasp when Illya jerks awake from one of his rare nightmares. Once, after a particularly strenuous week of capture and interrogation and last-minute rescues from elaborate deaths, Illya dreamed of THRUSH operatives bearing down on him with scalpels and hypodermics. They'd pinned his arms and pushed him back, but he'd fought, lashing out with a foot and a wildly thrown punch, only to be awakened by Napoleon's sharp cry of pain and shock. Illya'd opened his eyes to see his partner clutching his shin, eyes watering.

Illya frowned, the terror of the dream fading fast.'...Napoleon?'

Napoleon grunted. 'You sure pack a punch for someone your size.'

Ignoring the quip about his height, Illya ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself back in the present. His heart was still racing from the dream. Seeing Napoleon gingerly feeling the spot where Illya's flailing fist had caught his cheekbone, he said, 'I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?'

'I'm fine,' Napoleon replied, ruefully. 'You're going to explain the black eye to Waverly.'

'I didn't hit you _that_ hard.'

 

***

 

Nightmares are routine. There had been a time when they'd kept them to themselves, ashamed to admit such a weakness. These days, when they spend most nights together, there's very little point trying to hide them.

They don't happen all that often, but happen they do. It's a normal part of their line of work, and very much expected. Once awake, dreams hold little fear for either of them. After all, there are far more frightening things to worry about in the real world, without fretting over a normal psychological reaction to the traumatic experiences they each experience on what often feels like a near-daily basis.

They comfort each other, in the aftermath of such dreams, hold each other and whisper reassurances, but beyond that, they treat them as a normal occurrence. Sometimes, they discuss them over breakfast, laughing at inconsistencies and un-likelihoods which made sense during the malaise of fear in the nightmare, but in daylight sound absurd.

 

***

 

Napoleon is rarely the first to wake, but when he is, he relishes it. His hand goes out and brushes the shoulder of his Russian, just to remind himself that he's there - gone are the days when Illya would wake early and leave before dawn, leaving Napoleon to wake to an empty bed.

Illya does not wake at the touch to his shoulder. In fact, he doesn't even move. Now that he's less worried about being seen sleeping at Napoleon's apartment, less anxious to distance himself for fear of being hurt, he's dead to the world at this time in the morning.

When he's asleep, Illya's face is peaceful. There's no trace of a frown, no suspicion or savage sarcasm, just his closed eyes and mouth and his soft, steady breathing. He's wrapped in duvet, lying with his back to Napoleon, one foot poking out from the end of the blanket.

Napoleon glances at the opposite wall, where a faintly glowing square around the window shows that dawn is near. He checks the clock by the bed and, reassured that there's still time before they have to get up, shuffles down again, his chest against Illya's back, one hand crooked against his chest and the other looped over Illya's. He presses a small kiss to the back of Illya's neck. There's the slightest movement in the mattress as Illya shifts at the touch. His breath comes out in a faint huff and one hand brushes against Napoleon's. Napoleon kisses his neck again, nudging into him with his nose.

'Good morning, Illyusha,' he murmurs, but Illya is still not awake. Napoleon rests his head against Illya's hair and closes his own eyes.

 

***

 

Usually, however, Illya is the first up. With unerring accuracy, his body wakes him at 06:45 every morning. At 07:00, he has to wake Napoleon.

Their job requires punctuality. _Waverly_ requires punctuality, and will suffer nothing less than his Section 2 agents showing up exactly on time. Usually, this is at 08:00, but there are occasions, many occasions, when emergencies at Headquarters demand they be in earlier, or that they don't go home at all. Illya has long since lost all hope of catching up on all the hours of sleep he's lost on duties ranging from life-threatening to mundane.

So when routine follows the way it should, Illya is happy. 06:45 is a good time to wake, although from Napoleon's grousing it seems he doesn't agree.

Illya gets up softly, prodding him. Napoleon grunts. Irritability is rare for Napoleon - that's more Illya's forte - but he's never so grumpy as when pulled from pleasant dreams. Illya leans over so that his lips are almost touching Napoleon's ear. 'Up,' he whispers.

Napoleon makes a noise of disgust, but there's no point trying to sleep again. He reaches out a clumsy hand for the clock on the bedside table, groans when he sees its face, then puts it back down, a yawn shuddering through his whole body.

Illya watches, seated on the edge of the bed. After a moment or so, he gives Napoleon another poke. 'Up,' he says again, louder this time.

'Don't you ever feel like sleeping in?' Napoleon grumbles with resignation softened by sleep. He rolls onto his back, cracking his eyes open slowly to squint at Illya drily through the half-darkness. 

'No.'

Napoleon's eyes are closing again, so Illya takes the initiative and seizes the duvet, pulling it out of Napoleon's drowsy grasp with one solid yank. 'Hey!' Napoleon protests, reaching to pull it back. 'Unfair, Illya!'

But by the time Napoleon has got a hold on the duvet and is beginning to pull it back, he's more awake, and already in a better mood.

'If I make you coffee,' Illya says, not unkindly, 'Will you get up?'

Napoleon hums happily, eyes closed against the light spearing through the cracks in the curtains. 'Mmm. Yes.'

Illya pauses, surveys him for a moment. 'Good.'


End file.
